In the library of solitary life
there is
On an old wooden shelf, chapping
It’s pages kept to itself
Gasping for breath that no one has given its letters.
A hundred silent touches
Each were mistaken; only false hopes
The book shall never be read.
When the library opens
It is still, and it waits
For a hundred dozen fingertips
There is one that can lift it from
The dusty wooden shelf.
there is
On an old wooden shelf, chapping
It’s pages kept to itself
Gasping for breath that no one has given its letters.
A hundred silent touches
Each were mistaken; only false hopes
The book shall never be read.
When the library opens
It is still, and it waits
For a hundred dozen fingertips
There is one that can lift it from
The dusty wooden shelf.
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